The Wistful Ashes
The rain had not stopped in Harrowgate for forty days. It was not the gentle, cleansing rain of the coast, but a thick, grey sludge that coated the cobblestones in a slick, oily film. I walked with my head down, counting the cracks in the pavement. One. Two. Three. The counting was my anchor, a small, rhythmic prayer against the vast, humming silence of the town. Here, the air tasted of iron...
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